Uncharted Territory
by stcrmpilot
Summary: Narvin has a lot of thinking to do. Leela seems determined to intrude. (Set after 4.1 Reborn)


Narvin's hearts skip a beat as the door behind him slides open unexpectedly, startling him out of his thoughts. He resists the urge to turn away from the simulated viewport, sets his jaw and stares harder, if possible, off into space.

"Narvin? Are you here?"

It's Leela's voice, which means it isn't anything urgent. He doesn't answer, holding himself as still as possible in the hopes she won't realize he's hidden himself away in here and will go look somewhere else. She might well be the person he least wants to talk to right now; even Braxiatel would be tolerable in comparison, for at least he won't ask questions.

It's futile, though, and after a moment of silence Narvin hears her shift.

"Do not ignore me," she says, and he can imagine her looking at him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. "I can smell your misery."

Giving up the attempt, he heaves a sigh and turns a sour look on her. "What is it now?" he says testily. "Surely you lot haven't tired of ridiculing me already?"

"Never," she grins. Then, as if she simply couldn't resist getting in one last jab before returning to business, her expression turns serious. "Romana said I should find you and–" she makes a face– "make sure you were alright."

"Brilliant," he says, putting as much acid into his tone as he can. "Well, clearly I'm fine, so you may leave. Now."

"What happened?" she asks, ignoring him. "On that other Gallifrey."

He scoffs. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes," she says.

Any other time, he would come back with something witty, perhaps something just rude enough to convince her to give it up and leave him alone, but the tip of his tongue is strangely devoid of insults. The idea of sparring with her any further only compounds the exhaustion dragging at his limbs and the pain in his temples. He hardly cares whether she can tell something is wrong from his lack of vitriol; he just wants to be alone.

"Leela, I–" He sighs, resting his elbow on the desk and leaning his forehead into his hand. "I am not interested in recounting it. Why don't you go off and have a good laugh with the others? Make something up, if you must."

"Is that what is bothering you? You ran away because we were laughing?"

Straightening up, he blinks in alarm. "No! I– no, I didn't– I didn't _run away_." He glares, taken aback by her bluntness. "And I certainly don't care whether you choose to make fun of me. I was… thinking. I would like to return to thinking now." Something constricts painfully around his throat. He would, in fact, like nothing more than to stop thinking, but he has an immense number of things to consider and the thought of leaving them undetermined makes him feel short of breath.

(Could that happen? Could he possibly get so afraid that he can't breathe, and his respiratory bypass fails, and he dies in agony without the warm rush of regeneration energy to comfort him? He shoves the thought out of his mind.)

Something changes in Leela's expression, in a way he's never seen before and isn't sure he could correctly identify; she marches from her position in the doorway into his quarters and sits herself down on his bed, then evidently decides she isn't comfortable enough and reclines slumped against the wall, ankles crossed and hands linked behind her head. The door slides shut behind her. He opens his mouth to protest, closes it, and frowns, frustration simmering in his blood at her apparent sense of entitlement to his space.

She tilts her head slightly, in a way that makes him feel like she's looking right through him. "You were tortured?" she says quietly. "By the surgeon-master?"

"Minimally," he mumbles.

"Are you injured?"

"I said I was fine, didn't I?"

"I do not believe you. If you were fine, you would be working, not sulking in your bedroom." She pauses. "Romana said you might be hurt psy… psych-il-"

"Psychologically," he finishes for her, despite himself. _Tell Romana to mind her own business_, he grumbles internally, but he can't bring himself to say it aloud.

"Yes." Her expression pinches in something he might mistake for sorrow, if he didn't know better. It's disgusting. It makes him want to stand up and leave, abandon his room just to end the conversation, even if it would most likely mean giving Leela the opportunity to dig through his things.

"I am sorry, Narvin," she says quietly. "I was wrong to laugh. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. If there is anything–"

"What do _you _care?" he bursts out, his anger at her and Romana and Braxiatel and K9, at Rexus, at himself first and foremost, suddenly reaching a boiling point. "You aren't sorry! You don't want to help! You don't even _like _me!"

"You are mistaken," she says, calm as ever, and it only stokes his rage. "I would–"

"Oh, _shut up_!" he hisses. "If you won't leave me alone, then at least spare me the indignity of listening to you pretend you care what happens to me, that– that you don't wish I'd just died on the operating table."

His voice breaks on the last word, and he winces, embarrassment cutting right through the heat of the moment. It comes to his awareness quite suddenly that his hands are trembling, and most of the rest of his body too, in fact, and he clenches his hands into fists to steady them. To his dismay, all his anger towards Leela and the others drains away quickly; a horrible, empty ache set right between his hearts is all that remains. Oh, he hates himself for staying, and letting her stay, for ever letting her see anything of his that could possibly be construed as _genuine_.

He opens his mouth to take it back, somehow—he hasn't quite figured it out yet—but never does get the chance, because Leela darts to her feet, grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the back of his chair. His eyes go wide.

"If I were able," she growls, her face unnecessarily close to his, "I would march back through the portal, find that man Rexus and cut out both of his rotten hearts for what he did."

He realizes all of a sudden that he hasn't shut his mouth. "Oh," he manages. "I… that… not, er, necessary."

She releases him with a slow nod and returns to her spot on his bed. The solemnity of her expression puzzles him, for he can't shake the feeling that she should be teasing him, or threatening him, or completely indifferent at the very most. A pang of grief hits him hard at the realization; she must know that it isn't good, that he is indeed struggling, even though he hasn't explained—and if she's willing to show him mercy, then gods and Pythia, it must really be bad. Somehow, it's so much harder to deny it once faced with her pity. It's shameful. He feels like he's choking.

He rubs a hand over his mouth, turning slightly away from her to study his desk lamp. "Right," he says stiffly. "Well, I've a lot of things to get done, so…" His voice wavers maddeningly. The ache in his chest is quickly becoming unbearable, and he figures there must be a lingering scent of antiseptic on his clothes because his eyes are stinging something fierce, and it is really quite uncomfortable having another person in his room when all he wants to do is curl up and sleep for a week or so.

"Narvin?" Leela leans closer as if to study him, concern creasing her brow. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No." He sniffs, trying to keep his tone even. "That was… kind, I suppose. In your own way."

"You are crying," she says quietly.

He glares. "I am not."

"My ears work perfectly fine. There is no use in lying."

"Leela," he says desperately, "please, I just…" _I don't know what to do_, he thinks, and bites his lip hard to make it stop trembling. For a moment, he's hit by the absurd desire to tell her everything, just to get it off his chest; but he holds his tongue, certain he'll only succeed in running dry her meagre supply of compassion for him and earning himself a fresh round of mockery.

"I want to be alone," he finishes, pathetically shaky.

Leela holds her ground for a moment, considering, then stands. "Then I will respect your wishes," she says. "But I do not agree."

"I'm sure you don't," he mumbles. He starts when she places a hand ever-so-lightly on his shoulder.

"You know," she says, and he's shocked by the gentleness in her voice, "you do not have to hide away in here, if you are in pain. What is the purpose of a tribe if not to help its people?"

He's still staring, thoroughly lacking a coherent response, by the time she reaches his door.

"We aren't a _tribe_," he protests weakly, finding his voice again. "We're… associates." He's acutely aware that even "associate" would be pushing his luck, now; for what could they possibly need a useless spy with one pitiful life?

"I am sure you are right," she allows, a small, knowing smile quirking at her lips. Then she sobers. "I am glad you are okay, Narvin. And I am sorry."

She leaves, taking every last ounce of his willpower with her, and the door slides shut. He feels something behind his breastbone crack out of place. He locks the door, staggers to his bed, now warmed by her body heat, and buries his head in his hands, wondering in his pain-addled mind whether he isn't the one would rather it if Rexus killed him.


End file.
